Road Rules Online

Luis rammed the Escalade as it started up the ramp to the bridge.  They rounded the curve together.  As soon as they reached the straightaway of the bridge deck, Luis gunned the car and rammed the Escalade once more.

A bullet exploded his driver’s side mirror.  Luis rammed him one more time, then backed off when another bullet spider-webbed his windshield.  He slammed on the brakes.  The Escalade disappeared over the hump of the bridge.

Luis took out his cell phone and called Georgia’s drunk driving hotline.

Franco had a long knife out.  “Where’s my Chest, Stanley?”

“I don’t know,” said Stan.  “They just dumped me off here in Savannah last night, and I walked into the waiting arms of the Sher-”  The blade swiping his cheek stopped him.

“Where is it!”

Stan put his hands up.  “Hey, man, easy.”  He rubbed his cheek.  The palm came back red and wet.  “Fuck, I’m gonna need stitches.”

Franco leaned forward and grabbed Stan’s collar.  “Where.  Is.  The.  Chest?  What did you do with my saint?”

“Tim Mason took it.  He hijacked us in Virginia.”

“Who’s ‘us?’”

Uh-oh.  “Um…  Just me and some truckstop whore I picked up.  She got scared and left me in Virginia.”  When Franco pulled him closer and put the knife tip under his neck, Stan screamed, “I’m telling the truth!”

Something hit the SUV from behind.

At Christie’s, a diner a couple of blocks from Pulaski Square, Mike and Sharon poked at their breakfasts.  Outside, they’d parked a late model Tahoe rented in Sharon’s name.  Watching the television over the counter, she wondered if even using her name was safe anymore.

“Authorities from Cleveland have gone to Savannah,” said the talking head on MSNBC, “to question the suspect.  However, his attorney arrived and halted the interview before they could learn anything.  Special Agent Terri Kennedy of the FBI revealed further details about the case.  They are searching for an African-American woman in her late twenties, light skin, around five-nine, who may have been traveling with the suspects.  Kennedy termed the woman ‘a person of interest.’”

She put her head in her hands.  “Shit.  Do you think…?”

“Wait,” said Mike.

On the screen, a fortyish woman in a black blazer appeared, talking to reporters outside the Chatham County Jail.  The caption called her “Special Agent Terri Kennedy, FBI.”  A Hispanic man Sharon recognized instantly flanked Kennedy with…

“Uncle Bob?” she said.

Mike squinted through his sunglasses at the TV.  “That’s your uncle?”

“The one on the right,” she said.  “And the one on the left is Carlo Estevez, his old partner on the CPD.”

“We believe,” said Kennedy, “that the woman might still be with the other suspect, possibly unwillingly.”

Sharon scoffed.  “If Uncle Bob knew what we did last night…”

“Doesn’t like white men?” asked Mike.

“Loves them.  Except when they try to get in his niece’s pants.”  She winked.  “It’s almost over, Mike.”

“Is it?” he said in a hoarse whisper.  “Remember, they now think I’ve kidnapped you.  We pull into the jail or to the city police, and they’re going to arrest me.”

“Then forget the police.  For now.”

“What do you want to do?”

“It’s Sunday morning.  Let’s go to church.”

“It’s Franco,” said Luis, talking on his cell as he followed the Escalade toward Tallmadge Bridge.  “I saw Reuben Zilberberg come out the side entrance with Yarazelski.”

Miguel didn’t say anything.

“He’s headed back out of town,” said Luis.  “Looks like Hutchinson Island.  Or beyond.”  Beyond, meaning across the South Carolina line.

“Do what you have to do,” said Miguel in a southern accent.  “Get that SUV off the road.”

“Will do.”  He hung up and started weaving in and out of traffic as fast as the Chrysler could go.

Chapter 24

“Mr. Mason,” said the short guy with a thick mustache, “I’m Detective Sergeant Doherty.  Would you step this way, please?”

Behind Mason stood Miguel, aka Paul Fernandez to these hicks.  In front stood Doherty and the three deputies, hands over the butts of their batons.

“I… er…  really have to go,” said Mason.  “I was expecting my friend, Mr. Yarazelski to be here and…”

The hands moved from batons to pistol butts.

“I understand that,” said Doherty, “but there are some people here from Cleveland who’d like to talk to you.”  He stepped forward and lightly grabbed Mason’s arm.  “And I’m sure the Catholic Church wants to send someone out as well.”

He turned to Miguel, who still had his hands in his pockets.  “Sounds legitimate, Tim.  What have you got to lose?”

“I want my attorney,” said Mason.

“I thought Mr. Fernandez was your attorney,” said Doherty.

Something buzzed in Miguel’s pocket.  He took out a cell phone.  “Yes?”

Two deputies stepped in and pulled Mason back with them, Doherty falling in behind them.